Bravery Is By Far The Kindest Word
by johnsarmylady
Summary: When a case goes horribly wrong, John is determined to make sure that Sherlock gets out alive no matter what the cost. Rated T for content and bad language. No Slash. One-shot.


**Angsty one-shot – no slash, just friendship. If you like, please review….****  
****Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (So wish John was mine though!)**

It wasn't going to happen – not this way, not now. Looking down from his hiding place in the rafters John could see Sherlock slumped in the chair, his normally soft ebony curls plastered to his head with sweat, a slow, steady drip of blood coming from his face.

Below him, out of his line of sight, stood the man responsible for their current predicament, gloating about how he'd beaten the great Sherlock Holmes, how John Watson was already dead and…

"How does it feel Mr Smarter-Than-Everyone-Holmes? How does it feel to know you caused the death of your friend?"

John closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his side he waited, hearing the consulting detective's groan of denial.

"You'd better finish what you started then, Mirado" There was pain and resignation in the slurred words, and the doctor tried to work out if the slurring was caused by drugs or injury.

Not that it would change his course of action he thought viciously, the bastard was not going to get away with this. He wished more than ever that he had his gun, but that had been lost in the first skirmish, and he'd been unable to get his hands on another. He prayed Constantin Mirado was unarmed, that he would need to approach Sherlock thus coming out into the open, where John could take him down. And take him down he would, if it was to be his last act on this earth.

"Don't you want to know how your disgusting little queer died?"

"He was my _friend_!" Sherlock hissed angrily

"Shared your flat, shared your work, and shared your bed no doubt! You are nothing but unnatural filth!"

"And you are either a raging homophobe," struggling to sit up Sherlock scowled, although the effect was marred by his split lip and swollen, bleeding nose, "or denying your own sexuality. That's not so unusual in men who traffic sex workers"

"He died screaming! He pissed himself and begged for mercy! He died slowly, Mr Holmes, impaled on a fence, bleeding, and I had my men loose the dogs!" Mirado was screaming now, his face an ugly shade of puce. "My dogs are not fed very often Mr Holmes, and when they are they like their meat fresh and raw!"

"No." That hit home. Sherlock's anguished whisper chilled John to the core. He wanted to call out to him, to reassure, but to do so would surely be signing both their death warrants. Those dogs had been unexpected, and he had been bitten more than once before he managed to put them both out of action.

Looking down at his body, John realised he would have to act soon. He was bleeding still, although the handful of cotton plaid material he'd torn from his shirt and stuffed into the wound had helped slow it down. He'd tied the rest of his shirt around his body, pulling it tight in an effort to stabilise the damaged muscles, but neither action would prevent him bleeding to death nor help him to rescue the man tied to the chair in the barn below him. His phone battery had died, but not before he had sent frantic texts to both Lestrade and Mycroft advising them of the situation. Taking a moment to think through everything he had done – disposed of the dogs, neutralised Mirado's men – he hoped he hadn't missed anything, this would be his one chance.

Below him, Sherlock started hurling obscenities at his captor, calling into question his parents' marital status, his sexuality, everything he could think of to goad him. John smiled as his flatmate unwittingly gave him the opportunity he had waited for.

Holding tightly to an oak support, John crouched, balanced on the cross beam. As Mirado dashed forward, arms outstretched, hands reaching for Sherlock's throat, John launched himself, landing heavily on the trafficker and knocking the wind from both of them.

"John!"

Sherlock's shocked cry was ignored as John forced himself to move, smashing his elbow into the other man's face before crawling around behind him and pulling him into a choke hold, rendering him unconscious.

Taking a breather, he looked up into Sherlock's face and forced a smile. Sherlock tried frantically to free himself.

"No, no Sherlock, stop." Dragging himself on all fours, John inched his way across to the chair, and struggled to untie the knots in the rope holding his colleague captive.

"He told me you were dead, John, he said…."

"I heard. I'm sorry I had to let you believe that, I needed him where I could reach him." The last knot suddenly came undone and John slumped, barely conscious.

Sherlock was out of the chair and catching John before he hit the ground.

"What can I do for you?" grey-green eyes scanned his friend, cataloguing the injuries, gauging their severity. "John! Stay with me John!"

"Not goin' anywhere…" the voice was faint but still held the ghost of a smile. Sherlock shook his head remembering their first case, he and John laughing, John telling him he shouldn't giggle at a crime scene. He watched as his friend lost the fight to stay awake, slipping into unconsciousness, his breathing shallow and his pulse weak.

It seemed as if he sat there for hours, cradling his injured doctor, but in reality less than ten minutes passed before the sound of sirens and cars were heard screeching to a halt on the gravel outside the barn.

"John? John, wake up! The cavalry has arrived at last!" Sherlocks harsh whisper sounded near hysterical as he tried desperately to rouse his friend, but to no avail. Not even the sound of the police 'Enforcer' battering ram smashing the door down elicited a response from the blond doctor.

Suddenly the room was filled with police, and Lestrade, having spotted the two men on the floor, was leading paramedics over to them.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock!" He stared down at the consulting detective, still holding his bloody friend. "Let the paramedics see to him mate."

"His blood group…"

"We know, Sir," one of the paramedics spoke without taking his eyes from his work.

"It's okay, Sherlock, his text told us he was injured and bleeding, you know how thorough John is, he left nothing to chance." He half lifted the younger man to his feet as the medical team lifted John onto a stretcher and almost ran with him to the ambulance. Sherlock was suddenly galvanised into action.

"I'm going with him!" he pulled himself free of Greg's restraining hands and ran, stumbling, after them.

Lestrade watched him go as he pulled out his mobile and hit the speed-dial.

"Mycroft," he said as the other man answered. "He's okay. A bit bruised, possible broken nose, but no long-term physical damage."

"_And Dr Watson?"_

"Not so good. He wasn't kidding when he said badly injured." Greg sighed. "He's on his way to hospital now, but if you were to ask me if he'll get there alive I'd have to say I wouldn't lay odds on it."

As he put away his phone, he looked up to see a serious looking Sally Donovan walking towards him.

"I think you'd better take a look at this, Sir" she said, stopping a little way away and half turning, indicating the door she had just entered through. Nodding, he followed her back out.

A couple of hundred yards away from the barn was a set of metal railings, and one of the sharp upright spikes was liberally covered in blood – John's blood Lestrade was sure. Beside it were the corpses of two ill fed Doberman dogs, both had blood around their mouths and on their teeth.

"I think they may have been set on Dr Watson." Sally sounded sick.

"Shit."

"There are a couple of blokes over near that pile of hay bales" the Detective Sergeant pointed towards the side of the barn. "They're unconscious, and there's quite a blood trail leading over there and all the way up that pile of hay, to the window up there. That's how he must have got in."

"Yeah, all the doors are locked from the inside."

"Do you think he'll make it Sir? Dr Watson?"

"Christ, I hope so!" came Greg's heartfelt reply.

-O-O-O-

Sherlock sat frozen in the ambulance, forcing down panic as John's heart arrested for the second time. It took longer this time to re-start, and Sherlock feared if it happened again they would lose him.

Just as he began to believe they would never reach the hospital the vehicle swung into the emergency ambulance bay, and almost before the wheels stopped turning they were pulling John out, dropping the trolley wheels and racing with him to the waiting operating theatre. Sherlock tried to follow, but his path was blocked by a nurse who grasped his arm and guided him towards a cubicle.

"We need to look at your injuries," she explained, "you couldn't go with him anyway; he's already in the operating theatre!"

"But…"

"They'll let you know if anything happens." She looked sympathetically at him. "Try not to worry, you friend is in very good hands."

By the time Sherlock had been patched up both his brother and Lestrade were waiting for him. He looked at them both as they stood in the waiting room.

"John?"

"No news, brother."

"It's not good though, is it?" He felt the panic rising again "He died twice on the way here. It's all my fault! He shouldn't have tried to find me!"

"Stop it Sherlock!"

"Look mate, you know John would never let you get into trouble without at least trying to get you out of it – saving you from yourself he called it once!" Greg gave a weak smile.

The three men sat down, Greg staring at the floor, Mycroft composed and calm, and Sherlock – Sherlock alternated between fidgeting and sitting with his head in his hands, fingers tangling in his hair. The hands on the clock moved inexorably round its face, but not one of them seemed to notice the passing time.

It was more than five hours later when a tired looking surgeon in blood stained theatre scrubs quietly entered the room. His gaze swept searchingly across the faces of the men as one by one they rose to their feet.

Sherlock took a hesitant step forward. The surgeon's gaze returned to him.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked softly, reaching out to gently grasp the young man's arm.

Sherlock nodded, suddenly more afraid than he'd ever been.

"I'm fairly confident that, barring complications, your friend should make a full recovery. He had lost a significant amount of blood, and suffered liver damage, but we've repaired what we can, and we're replacing blood and fluids," A small smile lightened his tired featured as Sherlock sat down very suddenly on the chair that his brother had quickly placed behind him. "I want you to go and get a shower and a change of clothes, Mr Holmes, and when you're a bit cleaner you can sit with him!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by the medical man holding up a hand.

"I don't know where you've been, or what you've been doing, but you smell like a farmyard, and the lord knows what germs you might be carrying on your clothes. If you wish to see your friend you must clean up your act!" and with that he nodded to the occupants of the room and left.

-O-O-O-

As usual, Mycroft worked his efficient magic, and by the time Sherlock had showered in the nearby hotel room a set of brand new clothes were waiting for him. He was back at the hospital in less than two hours, and being led into John's private room.

Mycroft had followed him in, and the two men stood looking down at the pale, still figure in the bed. There was the reassuringly constant beep of the machine monitoring John's heart, and a fresh bag of blood had been attached to his IV.

Sherlock stepped up to the side of the bed.

"John, you idiot!" he scolded softly, "Sometimes you are just too brave for your own good"

Mycroft stepped up beside him.

"And I told him once before, bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, although I will confess, on this occasion, I cannot help but be grateful!"


End file.
